


Unfinished Business

by RedCharcoal



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, NSFW not even a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-14 03:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21008978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedCharcoal/pseuds/RedCharcoal
Summary: Andy and Miranda have unfinished business between them after an unexpected and intense moment in Miranda's hotel room in Paris. What if...they'd kissed?





	1. Ache

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Fanfic.net in February 2014 under my alter-ego Scribes and Scrolls.

I saw her out of the corner of my eye. How long has it been now? Five years? Six? I quickly do the sums again. Five years, two months.

She wears her age well, with a newfound poise, which is not surprising given how far she's come, how exceptional her career has been since that day in Paris that she left my side.

She moves with a confidence and a stillness she never had as my assistant. She seems to be gifted with an awareness of who she is and what she's doing. That's also new.

Has she found love? How could someone so full of life, and now so famous, be still alone? Has there been no one since cook boy?

_I ache for her. _

Wasn't that a shock to discover. Denial only lasted the first three months.

The day I forced her to go, I had no idea what I'd done. No one has come close to filling the void, no flirtation since has ever reached the heights of that one night when her brief touch redefined forever what I'd come to think of as erotic. All who followed were just sallow, empty imitations that left me feeling cold.

_I ache for her._

She is under my skin. At the end of our first year apart, I briefly considered looking her up. Inventing some excuse to be in her orbit and seeing where it might lead. Then, quite by accident, Nigel let slip she'd been avoiding me. That wherever I was, she wouldn't be.

_So, it was a one-sided ache, then._

I gave her her space. It was the least I could do after my deplorable behaviour. I pledged that I wouldn't make a move unless she appeared at an event she knew that I'd be at. That would be the criteria.

I've stuck to it religiously for five years and two months. But here she is tonight. At a Runway-sponsored party. She had to have known I'd be here.

My heart hurts looking at her again in the delectable flesh after all this time. I'd forgotten how breathtakingly beautiful she is when she smiles.

Andrea's hair is still straight and brown but less youthful in its style, no longer in bangs framing those expressive wide eyes. Well, less wide now, but no less expressive.

The way she looks at people these days is in the eye, direct, unwavering. She is in control. At ease. She owns this room. Look at the pathetic salivating men orbiting her - they can't take their eyes off her.

_Neither can I. _

She is magnificent in that gown. It's a stunning silver Valentino - the Italian collection - with a plunging neckline and crystal trim. It would have cost a pretty penny. _I suppose she can afford it now, with her rise and rise. _

And the heels - _dear God, is she wearing Prada?_

_Prada for me?_

My heart skips several beats as I consider that thought before instantly dismissing it.

Andrea Sachs most likely does not consider me at all. Not since that night in Paris, when everything changed.

That night I had sat on the couch, half a decade ago, stripped of make-up and artifice, trying not to be pulled into chocolate brown eyes of an assistant who had impressed me more than I cared to admit.

I'd lost my husband an hour before. The divorce papers still felt warm from the fax machine. The coward couldn't even do it to my face. So, just _perfect_, even the hotel concierge now knew about my crumbling home life.

My daughters were all I could think of - their humiliation at the hands of vultures in the press.

And Andrea sat there across from me and so earnestly asked: "Is there anything else I can do for you?''

Well that's what her voice said in those soft, concerned tones. Those were the words she spoke aloud.

Her eyes blatantly asked for something else.

I remember wondering about that for a moment, surprised she would choose to let me see something so naked, so needy. She'd hidden it better than most. Oh, she wasn't the first assistant to be attracted to my bright but deadly flame. But this daring little moth actually wanted _me_ to see it.

And then I realised why. She was mirroring my own vulnerability. She was giving me something awkward and intensely private of herself, so I wouldn't feel so one-sided in my evening's humiliation.

Having a goodness that pure - oh Hell, she'd ruin us both. I knew it even as I was irresistibly drawn to it.

_Now who was the moth and who the flame?_

I turned slightly on the couch, pivoting so I was in profile to her from where she faced me in a seat opposite. My robe slipped slightly, as I knew it would, off my right shoulder. I was quite naked beneath the thin grey silk. I glanced at her from under my sweep of white hair.

"I'm quite stressed," I husked softly. "Knotted up. It's most ... irritating."

_And humiliating_, I wanted to add. Being dumped by husband No. 3 by fax will do that. But I said nothing more, pressing my lips together firmly. My shoulders jiggled once in a seemingly indifferent invitation. My robe slipped slightly further. I brought my hand up to clutch it in front of my chest, in the vee, still leaving my shoulders bare.

I wouldn't ask outright. We both knew her résumé stated that she'd trained in massage as a sideline while studying journalism. I wondered if she would leap into some overly bubbly explanation about how her part-time massage job at that wellness centre near Northwestern University had paid for her student loans.

I didn't look at her, staring at the non-descript cream paint on the far wall, but I could sense her hesitation. She knew exactly what was being asked.

She always was the smart girl.

I swallowed sharply as I felt her move across to the sofa and take position behind my back. Her left bent knee slid along the sofa's high back, coming to rest just past my left hip, and her right leg stretched out, its foot still resting on the floor. Her core was pressed lightly into my backside.

She leaned forward and I felt the slightest huff of soft breath. Her fingers paused just above my skin, as if half expecting me to change my mind, and then she began to work.

The first touch was warm and smooth; so gentle. She was feeling her way around me, learning me, finding my knots and dips and rubbing carefully, thoroughly. Intoxicatingly.

I frowned at that thought.

I could smell her now. A hint of shampoo, maybe a dash of perfume - applied hours earlier, I decided. I tried to place its brand as her fingers dusted exactingly across my pale white skin. I'd never been much for the tanning, even in my youth.

I could hear her breathing deepen and noted her fingers were drawing lower down my back, across the tops of my shoulder blades. Her thumbs were working hard, pushing, probing, and I realised to my surprise she was actually _exceptionally_ good at this. Several knots were unkinking. I hadn't been lying about those.

Her hands floated down to the barrier of my robe stretched taut across my upper back. It would not drop further so long as my hands clutched the front firmly to my chest.

"Let go," she whispered brazenly in my ear.

I wondered for a brief moment whether she meant metaphorically. Or did she mean the robe? If it was the latter, I'd be bared - topless - although with her facing my back she wouldn't see anything.

Whatever she meant, both options were impossible. Miranda Priestly does not simply "let go".

"Please?" she whispered, her warm hands stilling and becoming soothing, waiting.

_So, she had meant the robe_.

As if I didn't feel vulnerable and on the edge enough. But I could see her point, as her fingers could only get so far in their magic trails. And they WERE magic.

Her hands resumed their delicate circles higher up as she let me decide. The movement was so sensuous it caused ripples, a swathe of goose bumps across my flesh, and my nipples tightened appreciatively.

_Traitorous nipples._

"Please, Miranda,'' she spoke again. "Let go. For me?"

_For me?!_

For ME!

My eyes shot wide open, askance.

_Who did the girl think she was? What hold did she imagine she had on my life?_

She was an assistant like any other, albeit one talented in soothing out one's stress knots. And tomorrow she'd see exactly how I treated those who worked for me when necessity dictated it.

She'd no sooner willingly touch me when that time came nor beg me for anything, than my dearest friend Nigel Kipling would want to look me in the eye.

So no, I would not allow this, this, this ... overstepping. This _need_.

I could not imagine what insanity I'd been thinking even letting things get this far. Before I could voice an opinion on the matter, she leaned her chin against my shoulder, her lips touching my ear. I felt her warm breath tickle over the shell and it stirred me in a way I never expected and wished I could unknow.

"You've gone all tight again, Miranda." I could almost see the breathy pout. A pause. Then: "Are you sure there isn't _something_ more I can do for you?"

Her voice was like a dollop of fine Yellowbox honey, dripping with innuendo - but not that knowing, predatory innuendo of one versed in a lifetime of sexual experience. Hers was shading to the hopeful. I could also virtually smell the fragility on her, the fear of rejection, and feel her heart thumping anxiously against my back.

_This had to stop._

_I would make it stop._

"Yes," I said coldly, and pulled my robe back up, her hands inadvertently snapping away due to my abrupt action. "What I need is for you to Do. Your. Job."

I pivoted ninety degrees in my seat so I was now flush against the back of the couch, my expression frozen. I pressed my knees tightly together. It wouldn't do if their faint shaking could be observed.

Her shocked face, her immediate distance as she instantly stood, robbing me of that wall of warmth, were reminders I'd done the right thing. There was no way this could ever end well.

And if, by some miracle, Andrea even dreamed of hunting for my good side after tomorrow, after I'd crushed Nigel's career dreams into a faint wisp of dust, I would simply _make_ her go. I'd done it before, with others who wanted too much from me, even if this time felt unusually less one-sided than others in the past.

_Not the point._

I considered my options for cleanly detaching her from my side, without firing her and unfairly affecting her career options.

_Some perfectly cutting speech would do it. Something about her selling her soul._

_It would be for the best. For both our sakes._

A wave of self-loathing washed across me as I watched Andrea hold her head up, trying to hide the tears brimming in her eyes as she reached the door. I felt like I'd just stomped Bambi.

I reassured myself, pursing my lips as the door clicked shut, that she probably wouldn't even miss me. Give it a month or so. I'd write her a reference. Nothing too flowery, but enough.

And Andrea Sachs would barely remember me - this hollowed out shell of faux humanity - let alone miss me.

_Because, really, what on earth was to miss?_

Five years, two months later, my eyes lock with Andrea's on the other side of the room.

The woman pauses mid stride and my breath stills. She stares back at me, curious. Confident. Beautiful.

Only one thought enters my mind.

_I ache for her._


	2. Hunger

I saw her out of the corner of my eye. Still as austere and graceful as ever, in a beautiful emerald Givenchy, with diamonds dripping across a stunning expanse of chest. _Did Miranda Priestly ever not command any room she was in? _

Andy thought not.

It was a gift, Miranda had, like the ability to see into a soul and tell a person the one thing they least wanted to hear. _Withered, fat, ugly, stupid, incompetent_. No one was spared.

_Unnecessary_. That one hurt most of all.

It's been five years, two months since I've laid eyes on her. Not that I'm counting.

_Oh wait, I am. _

I wore my Prada heels for her tonight. Not consciously, though. It was only after those ice blue eyes dropped to my feet, one eyebrow shifting slightly up in question, that I realised that's exactly what I'd done.

I'd worn the heels, just like I'd come to this event, because I was ready to see her again. As an equal. Deserving of respect.

She's coming over. Wafting really. Miranda Priestly doesn't walk. No, no, she glides, floats, wafts.

I keep swallowing. _Stop that. It's ridiculous. I'm a professional writer now. Feted by internationally respected magazines and newspapers who beg me to write for them._

I observe She Who Wafts, the emerald silk swirling around her ankles.

_Perfection_.

My first novel is at the printers, I remind myself, mantra-like, breathing in shakily. The publisher thinks it'll be a bestseller if the size of the advance he coughed up is anything to go by. _So, see, Miranda Priestly, not a lowly assistant. Not anymore. Not someone to be ignored._

I stand taller. Eye her impassively, my chin tilting up slightly. Challengingly. She gives the faintest twitch of a smile as she nears.

_Oh, she likes that._

I can smell her. That faint scent of sandalwood and something sweet, but more exotic. It's like the finest wine I can imagine, only better.

I remember touching her. She broke my heart with her cold dismissal, called me a sell-out in not so many words, gave me that smug look and then pressed her perfectly manicured thumbs into my weak spot until I snapped. I left Runway. I left _her_. Just as she'd wanted.

I worked that out later.

_Hell, she knew me so well._

But for all that, as of this moment, I just remember touching her. I, Andy Sachs, got to touch Miranda Priestly, to stroke and caress her intoxicating, soft skin for half an hour of heavenly grace before she cast me aside. I ran my fingers over her nape, dusting against tiny faint white hairs, and then followed the bumpy line of vertebra down, tracing her spine like a road map to her hidden secrets.

Many a night I lay in bed and dwelt on how she felt under my fingers. I would torture myself on what might have been if we'd not left the business between us unfinished. If she had 'let go' when I asked. Given herself to me.

I know it's probably not healthy, this, whatever it is. It's been five years, two months. My therapist says I should try dating again. Like those last two attempts worked out _so_ well.

Who could compare to _her_ though? What insanity is this so-called 'professional' advice?

It's easier to throw myself into something I do exceptionally well. Like writing. Obsessing over Miranda has turned me into an excellent writer.

_I think I'll fire my therapist. _

She's looking at me now. Sizing me up like a steak on a barbecue. Does she want to eat me or grill me? I suddenly picture her ladling sticky marinade over my naked body.

I briefly shut my eyes and I silently ask what I've longed to for five years, two months.

_Did you like it when I touched you, Miranda? Deep down I think you did. Very much._

_Maybe too much._

Yes, she wants to eat me. I've seen that look on the men's faces all evening.

_Hunger_. Even though she tries to disguise it with those half-lidded eyes.

_I saw it Miranda._

_I see it._

I blush hotly. Goddamn, why does my face betray me so often? My mantra kicks in. _I'm a professional writer. I'm a success. Not some powerless assistant. Her equal._

"Hi Miranda," I say. My voice has gone that weird husky timbre it does after I've had really great sex. Which, as I'm only too well aware, hasn't been for a long, long time.

_Shit, I'm thinking about sex while talking to Miranda._

Think of sad orphans.

_Better._

"Andrea."

God, she breathes it out like undiluted sex. My name slides from her lips like an unleashed hungry animal circling its prey.

_Why did she go and do that to me?_

I've been fine, fine for years without her. More or less. And Miranda just reduces me to a quivering mess of raw flesh, naked arousal and jangled hormones by saying my name.

_Will she eat me on the spot or take me outside into an alley where no one will see me come apart?_

_Do I care? _

_Is this even a metaphor anymore?_

I'm not exactly sure.

Her eyes seem so blue right now. I pull away, to add desperately needed space to the oppressive closeness.

"It's been awhile," I say. _She hates small talk. She always has. Say something else. Something important. _"I've missed you."

_I did NOT just blurt that out. God. Fuck! Shit! What the hell is wrong with me?_

She leans forward, her nose near my ear. I tremble. I wonder if she's trying to sniff me for one absurd moment.

"It's been far too long, Andrea."

"Yes, Miranda," I agree dumbly.

I like how close she is now. Her nearness is making every nerve ending in my body tingle. I put my hand on her forearm. A test. No one touches La Priestly.

She doesn't move the hand.

"We have unfinished business."

_Jesus, did I just say that out loud?_

How bold I must seem to the unapproachable devil in Prada. Her eyes widen marginally – she was always so very good at masking her emotions, but I catch the surprise in that micro second. It probably matches my own.

I nervously peer deeper into her eyes.

_Holy fuck, they're burning. And did she just lick her lips?_

I wait for her decision about our unfinished business. I remember another time when I waited, hands stilled against the warm expanse of her back while she made an identical choice.

I feel her hand lift to cover mine on her arm. She gives it a lingering squeeze.

"I believe you're correct, Andrea." Her eyes dance with fire and amusement. _She wants this. She wants me._

_I … oh. God. _

The hand is still stroking my arm. Like a James Bond villain caressing a white fluffy cat. I feel my heart thundering at this unexpected turn.

I am definitely firing that therapist – idiotic man doesn't know shit if he thinks anyone on the planet could ever, ever compare to Miranda Fucking Priestly. There _is_ no comparison.

"I have a suite upstairs," I dimly hear her say. "1201. If you'd care to join me for a nightcap a little later? Say at ten?"

I nod stiffly then because the emotion overload is now crippling my vocal cords. I don't look at her again because I might say something even more ridiculous, such as begging her to take me right now in the hotel's cloak room.

"Ten," I confirm hoarsely and move away as regally as I can muster, reclaiming my arm from this Bond villainess and her mystical wiles.

"I'll be there."


	3. Sated

She knocks on my suite's door at exactly ten in the evening. I pause a moment to collect myself, because this is ridiculous, this night, this fantasy. These things do not come true in real life, even for one accustomed to having outlandish expectations met. My mind has been all over the place from the moment I saw her earlier, from the exact second she'd agreed to my bold suggestion she meet me here. To conclude our "unfinished business".

I barely heard a word uttered since by Nigel or Emily (_the new one - who can remember her name? It's only been four months_). I never noticed the faces of those around me but I'm certain I must have greeted dignitaries and kissed the air next to collars and necks at appropriate junctures.

But for the remaining hour I watched her from the corner of my eye, swirling in and out of social circles, welcomed and clasped to the metaphoric breasts of the glitterati - fawned over by men and women alike. It wasn't just her new-found writing fame or her natural beauty that had them flocking to her. She has a charm and a warmth I will never possess in a lifetime of trying. That's if I wanted it; I certainly do not.

Right now there's only one thing I want. And she's now at my door.

I touch my hair, feeling the faint crinkle of hairspray and, reassured, turn the door handle.

_God. She just ... How does she...?_

She takes my breath away. What a cliche, but so help me, it's true.

I smile, just enough to convey my appreciation, not enough to give her a shock, and step back gesturing her to come inside.

The door is closed, with a Do Not Disturb sign affixed outside and locked. (_One cannot be too sure._) I've already instructed the front desk to hold my calls, turned off my cell and threatened my Runway entourage that only a catastrophic event involving my two teenage girls will be considered acceptable grounds for interrupting me tonight.

"Emily" whatshername nodded numbly, the girl's eyes darting all about in confusion. Nigel's instantly indifferent expression and his pointed focus on the chandelier seemed far too knowing for my liking. Well, to be fair, he had caught me (at least three times) wandering my eyes up the curves of my former assistant.

Wisely for both their career prospects, neither asked questions.

My eye slides indolently over Andrea's form once more. She is delectable. I force myself not to smack my lips. I am not, after all, a 15-year-old teenaged boy. Although I'm not entirely sure my suddenly tingling body got that memo.

She stands to one side, hands clasped at the front of that silver Valentino vision, eyes dark and full of desire. I realise when my eyes finally lift higher that she is staring at my clothing.

_Ah yes. I changed into the robe. The grey, silk one from *that* night._

"Well, you did say we had unfinished business," I murmur with a tug of my lips, eyeing her suggestively from under my sweep of hair.

Andrea smiles, eyes dancing. "Yes," she says breathily. "I certainly did."

My body is aching at being this close. How can she be so poised at a time like this? Where has that panicked creature gone who would fling herself up and down stairs for me in her pursuit of my perfect coffee? Not that I want her back. She is a girl. Tonight I'm in the presence of a woman, and I must say the improvement is in both of our interests.

Now, God. Just _look_ at her.

"You're beautiful, Andrea,'' I say, finally finding my voice. "The passing years have suited you."

"You look," she begins, tilting her head, and slowly scraping her gaze across my form like fingertips, "exactly the same."

I lift my eyebrows. Hardly. I see in the mirror each morning the extra lines I have to bury under make-up, the tiny sun spots on my hands I now hide with gloves when possible, a fatigue in my eyes that never entirely leaves me after the unrelenting grind of being at the peak of my game for decades.

She takes in my incredulity and her eyes warm. She looks at me directly, but softer this time. "I mean, you look like a queen. You always did and still do. You are magnificent. I loved seeing you in your gown tonight. Givenchy, right?"

I nod, somewhat surprised she'd still be able to spot a label given she barely could as my assistant.

"Some things do stick," Andrea says with a self-deprecating smirk. "And while you were perfection owning that ballroom tonight, my favorite look was always the one you're wearing now."

She steps forward and suddenly runs her hands down the lapels of my grey robe. "This is the look I think of when I miss you. It's what you were wearing when you were thinking of me in ... an intimate way. Because you were, weren't you? The night in Paris - you considered saying yes to more."

She didn't phrase it as a question so I considered just leaving her statement unanswered and salvaging my pride. If it had been anyone else having the presumption to speak to my thoughts or feelings, they'd be turfed outside already with my indignant snort ringing in their ears.

But this is Andrea. The one I have ached for for five years and two months. Normal rules no longer apply. I consider what she has asked. The night she speaks of - truthfully I have relived it many times in my mind. All the ways I might have handled her proposal. All the outcomes it might have had. How it might have gone if I'd said yes. All the reasons I had to say no. All the times, in the middle of the night alone with my thoughts, that I desperately wished I'd thrown common sense out the window and let her have me. Just let go.

_But Miranda Priestly doesn't let go._

"Yes, Andrea," I confirm in a low voice, surprising myself with my honesty. "I thought of saying yes."

_There, a gift. For her._ Because I care and it wouldn't do for her to think this evening is nothing more than me scratching some old itch. This means far more to me than that. If she's smart she'll understand what I'm saying without me having to say it. And she always was smart.

She stops that sensuous, hypnotic stroking along my lapel, and her big brown eyes fix on mine.

"I'm not disposable anymore," she tells me hesitantly, but there's a fire in her eyes. "You ... you don't get to throw me away this time if you panic. I'm not your assistant any longer. Do you understand?"

The intensity of her tone stymies me for a moment. Her brown orbs are fixed on mine, as if willing me to understand some vitally important thing.

Her hold feels tighter and I look down. I find a hand scrunching the front of my robe with shaking white knuckles. I cover the hand with my own, and gentle it out, flattening it against the silk lapel.

"You weren't disposable to me then, either," I tell her quietly, recapturing her gaze. "If you were I would have fired you for making me feel ..."

I stop. I haven't even worked out what she made me feel then - or now. Not exactly. I touch her cheek briefly and feel exposed for doing so. I drop my hand and tell her: "I cared enough not to fire you when it would have been the easiest choice."

She considers my words, which I've carefully parsed to not give too much away. I wonder if she realises how many exceptions I made for her that night - even though I'm sure by any decent standard I still am pictured in the dictionary somewhere under "Heartless (n): *see Miranda Priestly".

She nods, though, seeming to hear what I can't say. She bites her lip and then says softly: "I'm sorry for leaving you in Paris the way I did. It was unprofessional, regardless of the reasons. I've always felt bad, leaving like that."

"I said what I did, on purpose, so you felt you had to," I say, slightly anxious to finally admit my manipulation. But I'm too old and too weary of the secrets, the distance between us.

She eyes me for a beat, clearly unsurprised, and then leans softly against me.

_She knew. I see it on her face._

Andrea never ceases to amaze me.

I feel her resting against my heart, and wonder if she can hear it racing. I feel regret. For the lost years, lost opportunities. I wonder if I should apologise for my part in all this muddle. Or would her fainting in shock ruin the mood? And the mood is very desirable.

_Maybe later._

Ghosting my fingers under her chin, I tilt her head up and seek her lips out. She responds immediately. Her lips move against mine and then hesitantly her tongue runs along my lips, seeking permission. I open my mouth, and welcome her. The feel of her touching me so intimately sends desire rocketing down to my core. I hide the tremble but, hell, it's a close call.

My nipples, bare under my robe, have hardened into tight knots. She must feel them. I feel her hand sliding up and giving my right breast a playful rub. _Oh. Oh yes, she's felt them._ My knees almost buckle.

I step back suddenly. Brown eyes fill with concern. I almost kick myself. I see on her face the question, asking whether history is about to repeat. Whether the willful and tempestuous La Priestly will now cast her away again and ignore her for five more years.

"No," I say, with a reassuring smile. "Whatever you're thinking, no. Never again. It's just that I very much appreciate the idea of finishing our 'unfinished business'. Before anything else." I gesture to the bed. "And I know from an impeccable source that you give an exceptional massage."

Her lips split into an impossibly wide grin, her perfect white teeth blinding me. _How can this woman possibly choose me? She could have anyone. Half the ballroom downstairs alone would be jealous enough of me to scratch my eyes out right now._

My chest puffs out faintly at the thought and the movement catches her eye. She looks hungry and the pride and delight I feel ignites me. I give her a knowing smirk and she reddens, and for just a flash I spy the girl I first hired. And then, just as fast, she's gone as she orders quietly: "Get on the bed, Miranda. You're right. We have business to finish."

Miranda Priestly is lying, face-down, on a huge bed in front of me. Her grey robe is pooled over her ass only, and her beautiful back is bare. She slipped the robe down and arranged herself so swiftly that I didn't catch so much a glimpse of anything. I wonder, and cannot wait to find out, what I will discover when I finally get to pull the rest of the robe away.

_Is she completely naked? _I lick my lips in anticipation.

"There's massage oil on the table," I hear her muffled voice speaking into a pillow.

I glance around to the table she indicated vaguely at with the indifferent flap of an arm and find a small bottle attached to a "With compliments of..." hotel card. _So she'd ordered it from the concierge. Thorough as ever._

I kick off my heels. And then, slowly, so the whole room is filled by the vibrating sound, unzip my gown.

I watch in amusement as Miranda, her face still buried in pillow, seems to freeze her breathing and then resume faster, if the rise and fall of her back is any indication.

I drop my gown to the floor and carefully step out of it.

"You'd better hang that up," comes Miranda's muffled voice. "It's too exquisite to crease."

I grin broadly._ Ever the fashion editor._

"Yes Miranda," I tease in my old assistant's voice.

She snorts.

I quickly find a hanger then return to the bed side. I remove my stockings and jewellery, letting the latter tinkle on the chest of drawers by the bed. I notice Miranda is listening to every sound, as if painting the scene in her mind. I find I like the thought of being at the center of Miranda's imagination very much.

I am down to only my white, lacy lingerie set. Something for Miranda to inspect at her leisure later. I dig my iPhone out of my purse and select my meditation playlist. Soft sounds of waterfalls and a mystical melody fills the room.

I hear her sigh in anticipation - or impatience - and smile.

I finally take the oil bottle, climb on the bed, straddling Miranda just below her ass and sit back lightly, knees framing her narrow hips. I unscrew the lid and pour a dollop of oil into one hand and, thanks to spending 18 months working at Ohio's Wellness and Lifestyle Center, skillfully put the lid back on one-handed (this isn't my first rodeo). I place the bottle carefully on the bedside table and then warm the yellowy liquid in my hands, letting the vanilla and exotically spiced scent fill the air.

She's almost twitching with anticipation now, and I wonder how she's managed to refrain from ordering me to "Get on with it."

I lower my hands and smear the oil in gentle, wide arcs up and down Miranda's bare back.

I hear a low, stifled groan and feel inordinately pleased. For the next 20 minutes I make it my mission to smooth oil into every exposed patch of pale skin, paying particular attention to Miranda's intoxicating smooth shoulders, her meridians (which I aced in my massage course) and, lastly, her sides, sneaking swirls in along the edges of Miranda's breasts and ribs, just to see her squirm.

Squirm she does. Soft "oohs" float from her quivering lips and I find myself wondering what other sweet spots I can find. This becomes my goal for the next half hour, homing in on every part of Miranda which makes her wiggle and gasp, groan and arch her back.

Finally, when her breath turns less relaxed and more ragged, I head lower for the promised land. I swallow and ease myself up on my knees and reach for the grey robe still cloaking Miranda's ass.

"May I?" I ask. It seems only polite, somehow, to mark the moment that a semi-professional massage turns into a distinctly personal fondle.

A choked gurgle and adamant nod answers the question. I glance up curiously. Miranda is now strangling the pillow under her chin and chest and breathing hollowly.

I lift the grey silk off her swells slowly, trailing it teasingly across her skin before dropping it to the floor. A rush of goosebumps appears, followed by a shaky, erotic moan.

I gasp as I look at what I've uncovered. Miranda is wearing only the thinnest, flesh-covered, lacy satin thong. I glanced lower and see the material below is drenched with moisture. The juncture of her thighs is also slick and shining in the dimmed lighting.

"Oh Miranda," I whisper and drop a kiss on her left globe.

Her body trembles.

"You like that?" I suggest, letting my warm breath wash across her skin.

No reply. Then an anguished half noise. Then nothing.

"I think you do," I tell her creamy perfect ass earnestly and tilt my head to kiss the other cheek, letting my tongue give the expanse of skin an indulgent swirl.

The scent of her arousal floats up so I kiss the path from the thong's lacy waistband down, between her swells. And lower.

I hear a soft whimper. And what may or may not have been my name.

Smiling against her flesh, I resume my descent. With a groan of my own, I slip further until my nose is in line with Miranda's center. I run a single finger along the lacy strip, bisecting the soaking material. I run my finger up and down, widening the intimate line between her lower lips, enjoying the sounds my strokes make, and the roughness of the texture under my fingertips.

It is the single most erotic thing I've ever done in my life, and I quiver just watching my finger playing with her most intimate spot.

I blow against her covered core and whisper: "I think you like this very much. Now imagine what it's going to feel like when my tongue is on your bare flesh. In you."

A tremor runs up Miranda's thighs and the anguished gasp is louder this time. She's definitely thinking about it.

I lean forward and let my tongue drag up and down the material, deepening the crease, drawing out the flavours I find. Miranda has a heady taste, slightly sharp, distinctive and delicious. I could stay here for days. My own wetness is threatening to overflow my panties and I shift my thighs to relieve the pressure.

Miranda is starting to writhe and I seize her thighs and push them apart, opening up my access. Her growing arousal fills my nostrils now and she sounds tortured as she sucks in a ragged breath.

My thumb hooks underneath the thong and I feel her heat scald it. It's my first skin-on-skin contact with the woman who has haunted my fantasies for so long. She feels on fire. I give a small moan.

"Andreaaa," Miranda gasps. Her voice is rough, like worn sandpaper. "Will you ... please ... for the love of God ... take me!"

Her desperation - and use of the word please - is quite possibly the most arousing sentence I've ever heard from Miranda Priestly.

I grasp the thong and pull it roughly down and off. The sight before me makes my eyes go wide: Plump, swollen, perfect pussy lips; tiny white curls drenched with arousal, and a fleshy, deep red, dark entrance, tempting me in.

"Oh," I gasp, another ripple of arousal tearing through me. "I want..." I lean forward, my tongue twitching. "Everything," I exhale and immediately fasten my lips on her and begin to suck and lick as my hands float back to her ass and rhythmically rub her swells.

Miranda begins to gasp repeatedly. Incoherent words like "more" and "there'' escape but most of the time she babbles nonsense. I lock an arm over the small of her back to keep her in place and my other hand burrows between her twitching legs and seeks out her clit.

I give the small nub a powerful rub - which makes her arch and, unexpectedly, shriek and jerk - and then I swirl my drenched fingers over it, as my tongue plunges inside her.

Miranda shudders and her incoherent ramblings increase. She finally begins to fall apart. My tongue and fingers ride her relentlessly. When she arches, though, what she says is crystal clear. I almost come on the spot.

"Andrea," she cries. "My Andrea. Oh God."

_My Andrea._

My mind whirls in surprise.

When Miranda collapses, boneless, back on the bed, I sit on my knees and urge her to turn over. I desperately want to see the goddess - all of her and I've been sorely deprived so far.

Miranda obliges, with a faint humph at being made to move, and then her blue eyes flicker open.

My breath catches. She watches me study her body with an unreadable expression. I take in her beautiful, full breasts, with pale pink-tipped nipples, still jutting proudly. Soft creamy skin, a flat stomach with a faint scar - the twins, I guess. Downy, white hair in neatly trimmed curls cover her core, and slippery pink lips, still liberally coated in her arousal, peek out, teasing me with visions of what I'd like to do with them next.

"Perfect," I offer reverently and then lift my eyes to her, still kneeling before her, as if in benediction. "You are gorgeous."

Miranda's mouth curves into a pleased smile and then her eyes flicker hungrily over me.

"Take that off," she orders, with a flick of her impatient hand in the general direction of my bra. "I wish to inspect you as thoroughly as you just did me."

Miranda's smouldering scrutiny does funny things to my stomach. I gulp.

With shaking hands I undo my bra and drop it to the floor. Then I stand and lower my panties to my ankles and step quickly out of them. I make to move back to the bed but Miranda whispers hoarsely: "Wait. I... Just give me a moment."

I stand before her intense gaze and try not to blush to my roots as she studies me with those half-lidded eyes. I remember that expression only too well from the ballroom. A sticky marinade sauce comes to mind.

"Now come here," Miranda says finally, in her cutting, down-to-business voice, the one she uses in the office to make all the Emilys tremble. It's decadent, somehow, hearing it in bed. _Oh God._

I stretch out beside Miranda and am seized immediately in a ferocious kiss, claiming me with a passion I never expected. _Hell, can this woman kiss when she wants to._ I feel like I've just been branded: Property of Miranda Priestly. I come up for air and gasp in a breath, looking at her, startled.

"You make me crazy," she growls by way of explanation. "And that 'massage' was utterly exquisite." She smacks her lips in satisfaction.

I would have answered but my tongue has been recaptured by her wicked lips. And then my head is swimming as I feel long, smooth fingers work their way between my thighs and then slide upwards. She plays with me for a few teasing minutes, enjoying making me squirm as thoroughly as I did her.

The moment she enters me, though, I see shooting stars. Bright white stellar trails. I gasp into her mouth and Miranda smiles against me, then without warning begins to pump two fingers in and out me. I feel tears stinging my eyes, it's so good.

Miranda's mouth, so cruel at times, is doing erotic, brilliant things against my neck, which I have no words for. _Some fancy writer I am._ I feel teeth scraping, tongue grazing, and my arousal is ratcheting up to absurd levels. A slender thumb now slips above my mound and pushes against the side of my clit, on the left, just where I love it most. _Oh God. Shit._

_How does she know?_

_I am going to..._

I gasp when she does it again and I shut my eyes tightly. She is so unbelievably good at this. _Has she done it before_, I suddenly wonder, as fireworks start to go off in my brain. _Is that why she is so_... ooooh. Another tremor hits and I realise I don't care at this moment whether Miranda has boldly finger-fucked her way through the entire Dallas Cowboys cheer squad to acquire the skills she's performing on me now.

I'm a quaking, complete mess, sweating, my hair stuck to my skin, trembling, moaning and when I think I cannot feel any better, she suddenly shifts and heads down the bed.

_What?... Is she going to...? Oh fuck._

_Miranda Priestly is actually going to eat me out._

Those perfectly vicious lips I've dreamed about for five years swallow my clit whole, her tongue swirling and twirling some insanely intoxicating pattern. I howl. I _actually_ howl. And then I glance down and see white hair. The white hair of the icon.

_La Priestly. Is. Eating. Me._

And she looks like she's enjoying it, too. In a state of shock I stare down at that famous head moving up and down between my legs. Blue eyes lock with mine, and I can see the hint of devil in her. She knows exactly what she's doing to me. She knows what I'm thinking most likely. It's all there in those playful eyes.

_She loves that she's doing it to me._

_She loves..._

My mind suddenly starts to short circuit when she presses her tongue hard, flat against my nub, and drills two fingers inside me and holds them there. I gasp, my thighs going rigid.

Then I come.

It's like nothing I've ever experienced before. I wonder why that is, in some dim part of my brain that is still functioning. _What is it Miranda Priestly has specifically done to me that's different?_ It's like she knows some secret button to push. Or is it just that it's her, and the fact I'm completely gone on her and have been for years?

Tears are leaking from my eyes as I twitch from the powerful aftershocks that she gently kisses away, and finally I collapse in a grateful moan.

She crawls up my body in the most feline move I've ever witnessed. She entwines herself around me, looking like the cat that got the cream (or _my_ cream at least), and for one astonished moment I wonder if she's going to cuddle me then fall asleep.

_Trust her to be the big spoon._

Instead she strokes my chest, my breasts, my hair and floats her hand up to my face. It's so itchingly, achingly domestic I can't help but wonder where this version of Miranda Priestly hides herself for most of the day.

As if reading my mind she suddenly rolls onto her back, snapping her hands back to herself and her shutters go down. She exhales sharply, nostrils flaring.

"Business is definitely no longer _un_finished," she declares firmly, talking to the ceiling.

I twist my head in confusion to look at it, wondering what on earth she's seeing up there that's so fascinating.

Nada.

I glance down again and watch as her hands suddenly grab a spare pillow from the other side of the bed. She holds it to her chest. Well, _clutches_ it, really, but I suspect Miranda would sooner die than be accused of clutching anything beyond a new season Louis Vuitton handbag.

Miranda appears to be waiting for something and I frown, wondering what I'm meant to say. Her lips seem to be getting thinner with every passing second as she glares at the unfortunate ceiling, hanging onto her damned pillow.

I reach over and stroke her hair. I've always loved it. She freezes for a second but doesn't pull away. I nudge over closer and nuzzle a little at the crook of the neck and drop a few appreciative kisses. Her lips become less thin. She even seems to push into me a little.

_Hmm._

And then I get it. I remember the look on her face when she had me. How she delighted in me. She wants to do this again. Often even. And now she's waiting for the blow. For me to leave now our business is finished.

For a smart woman, Miranda is a complete idiot.

_As if I could just get up and leave now._

I roll over onto my side, leaning on my elbow and trail a finger down Miranda's soft skin, pausing to twirl around her belly button.

Her head snaps over and she glares at me, flicking me away from her ticklish spot. Thin lips resume. Her bottom lip trembles faintly before she rakes her teeth viciously over it. _That'll teach it._

I roll my eyes at her denseness. "Miranda, I have not waited five years, two months to get you into bed, just to let you go after our first time," I tell her quietly. "I suspect we'll have much, much more 'business' to conduct together - I mean, if you're interested."

Miranda's eyebrow lifts. But instead of the usual disdain that accompanies her oh-so familiar quirk I see only hope.

"You kept count?" Miranda asks, her voice a harsh whisper. "Of how long it's been?"

I grin. "Of course. You're unforgettable - as you well know. Honestly."

"I don't know anything of the sort," Miranda says and purses her lips. "Why on earth did you stay away from me for so long if you missed me enough to count the months?"

She looks so adorably outraged now, that I almost laugh. I resist the urge to soothe away her frown. I sober as I remember why I went away. I had good reasons. The best.

"I needed to meet you again as an equal," I explain gently. "Or it never would have worked. You understand that, don't you? Isn't that why you sent me away in the first place? So we wouldn't do something we'd regret, with our unequal roles, and never be able to do this the right way?"

Miranda blinks at me. "I have thought about that day many times," she admits. "But I never came up with an exact reason for sending you away. Or rather I had dozens of reasons, excuses and rationalisations, but none seemed to fit _exactly_. I think I like yours though."

She gives a small smile but it seems to light up the room with the amount of hope leaking from it. "So, when you say 'much, much more business' ..."

And just like that, Miranda's eyes are suddenly burning.

_How does she turn her emotions on a dime like that?_ I stare at her in wonder.

"You see Andrea," she continues, as though pointing out the key points of a run-through, "This time I want to see your face when your tongue does unspeakable things to me."

"Oh," I respond faintly, greatly appreciating the visual image. "Well that can be arranged. With pleasure. _Much_ pleasure."

I give her my cheekiest grin and tug at the pillow she's forgotten she's still holding to her chest.

"Miranda," I whisper, "Let go."

She looks at me, startled at the reminder of a time five years ago when those same words were uttered, and then down at the pillow.

"Let go," I repeat, and add with a small grin: "For me."

Miranda huffs once but it's definitely for show.

And then, finally, she slowly lets go.


End file.
